


The Twelve Christmas Days of Peeta Mellark

by Abagail_Snow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abagail_Snow/pseuds/Abagail_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta Mellark loves Christmas before he even knows what Christmas is... vignettes of different Christmases in Peeta Mellark's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Christmas Days of Peeta Mellark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deedub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedub/gifts).



> For the Hunger Games fic exchange. DeeDubWest requested for Peeta being wonderful at Christmas. Hope she enjoys!

Peeta Mellark loves Christmas before he even knows what Christmas is.

It's an ancient tradition that is never practiced in Panem. A blurb in a textbook that no one ever really fusses over, or knows much about.

But Peeta Mellark is generous, much in the spirit of the forgotten holiday. He is giving, enjoys the company of his friends and family, and believes in the inherent good of others. Christmas and Peeta Mellark are a perfect pair.

The spirit isn't the only commonality that they share. There's the love of intricately decorated sugar cookies, the plush snow that dresses the whole district in a blanket of sparkling white, the hot chocolate that warms to the tips of one's fingers, and most importantly the smell of fresh pine.

It's an odd scent to be familiar with, since there aren't any pine trees in District 12. But there are tall, thin fir trees tucked into the woods that line the fence, and although he's never ventured out into the forest, he knows someone who has.

Or knows of someone at least.

And one afternoon, when she slips passed him in a crowded hallway at school, he's intoxicated by a spicy aroma clinging to the tip of her braid that he's never experienced before. It haunts him for days, trying to decipher it. He mixes spices in the bakery trying to recreate it. Honey for the sappy sweetness, cloves for the spice, and rosemary for its fresh, earthy scent, but nothing is the same.

He nearly forgets of the wonderful fragrance until years later, in the Games, when he lies dying in the river bed with his cheek resting on a pillow of pine boughs beneath a single fir tree. A mockingjay perches high in the branches, whistling a four note tune. It brings him comfort in his final moments, and as he drifts towards the darkness, he finds himself murmuring, “Katniss.”

 

* * *

 

The two cookies, shaped like doves, have been on the tray in the display case for two days now, which means that if nobody buys them today, Peeta and his brothers will get to share them.  And since Peeta happens to be helping out at the bakery that very afternoon, he's guaranteed a whole cookie to himself.

He keeps vigilant watch over the little bird cookies through his entire shift.  His eyes peering at them protectively through the kitchen door as he methodically kneads dough. 

Fifteen minutes before closing, a mother and her daughter come into the bakery, eying those dove cookies, and Peeta frantically suggests that they purchase the fresh, strawberry shortbread cookies, because they're delicious and pretty and pink (and to be honest, he doesn't really like them all too much anyway.)  They leave with a whole sack of them, and Peeta beams with pride at the treat he will soon be able to savor.

It's silly, really, to be so excited over stale cookies.  But even though they're surrounded by sweets and pastries on a regular basis, they rarely get to eat them.  Usually only the hard, tasteless breads are left over, which he has to drown in beef broth to even chew. 

The cakes and cookies are expensive, but they sell out quickly, and Peeta spends hours, meticulously decorating them, imagining how sweet they would taste.

The shop closes and his father asks him to pack away the leftovers, just as they do every night, and he winks at Peeta when he mentions the untouched cookies.  Peeta wraps them in the standard "Mellark Bakery" wax paper pouch, and slips them into the back pocket of his slacks before he brings the trash bins out back, to the dumpster.

It's cold outside, and his breath fogs around his face as he maneuvers the bins across the slick sidewalk.  Large flakes of snow fall from the sky in clumps, and he catches one on his tongue, the thought of dove shaped sugar cookies curling his lips into a grin.

The thin sheet of ice across the pavement sparkles from the dim streetlamp, and Peeta notices movement in the shadow beneath the apple tree.  Although it's been years, immediately his mind wanders to Katniss, with her gaunt cheeks and sunken gray eyes staring up at him.  But the gray eyes staring back at him don't belong to her. 

They belong to a little boy -- Seam -- no older than eleven by the looks of it.  He shivers as he clutches his stomach and rocks gently in the winter breeze.

Peeta's hands feel heavy with a burnt loaf of bread, but he has nothing to give.  Except for one thing.

He positions the trash bins against the fence, and steadies one before it tips over.  As he leaves, he reaches into his back pocket for the wax paper bag of cookies, leaving it on the bin's lid before walking away.

 

* * *

 

“They're laughing at me,” Delly says, pushing her half eaten sandwich across the table.

Peeta's eyes follow the path of hers towards Hibby, Ellenor, and Nancee huddled around their lunches, giggling over their lunches.

“Probably not,” Peeta offers weakly.

“They are,” she says. “I heard them talking earlier.”

Peeta bites into his ham sandwich, and it takes a few struggled chews before he can finally speak again. “About what?”

“Kissing boys,” Delly says with a sigh, after a moment of hesitation. “They were talking about how they've kissed boys at the slag heap, and I haven't.”

Delly's probably the nicest girl in school, and she's certainly pretty, even though he doesn't usually think of her in that way. But he doesn't like to see her upset, because she's his friend, so he uses the back of his sleeve to clean crumbs from his mouth, then leans forward to peck her on the cheek.

It's winter, not cold enough for snow, but cold none the less. The Capitol is stingy on how much coal is to be distributed to Twelve, so they only heat the classrooms in the school house this time of year, meaning the cafeteria is just as cold as sitting outside. Delly's wearing her winter jacket and a headband to cover her ears, and the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks are just as pink as her lips.

“There,” he says, pleased with himself. “Now you have.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips turn up into a smile. “Not like that,” she says. “A real kiss. Frenching, with lips and tongue.”

“I don't think you should be thinking about that kind of kissing,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. Peeta _has_ kissed girls like that before, and usually when he did, kissing wasn't the only thing they ended up doing. He doesn't want to think about boys kissing his best friend like _that._

“Peeta, we're fifteen. Everyone is kissing like that,” she says.

He frowns as he slouches to lean against the back of his chair. His eyes scan across the lunchroom, and like a moth to a flame, land on Katniss Everdeen. She's with her sister and some other little kids, but as usual, she's sitting right next to that Hawthorne guy. Peeta _hates_ that Hawthorne guy, because he's almost certain that that Hawthorne guy kisses Katniss in the way that Delly is asking to be kissed.

“Not _everyone_ ,” he says harshly.

Delly knows right away, because of course she would, and smiles at him teasingly. “Not everyone,” she agrees. “According to Madge Undersee, anyway.”

Peeta's so relieved by the news that he kisses Delly right on the lips.

 

* * *

 

The Capitol has a festival (as they do every night) in late December called the Black Feast.  It's a gluttonous sort of holiday with lavish gift giving and endless desserts that taste of cinnamon.  It falls on the night before the Victory Tour banquet and Effie is absolutely thrilled that Peeta and Katniss will have the opportunity to attend.

Portia dresses Peeta in a dark ruby suit with green trim, because those are the traditional colors of the festival (which makes no sense to him) and Katniss is placed in a stunning red velvet gown that hugs her shoulders with white fur trim, leaving her neck completely bare.

They put on their usual show -- laughing and dancing and kissing, lots of kissing, and Peeta lets his fingers ghost against the soft fabric of her dress the entire night, leaving the pads of his fingers intoxicated. 

They're sipping on creamy liqueur from gilded mugs, while munching on gingerbread, when four Capitol socialites flutter about like birds to surround them with even more enthusiasm than is usual for Capitol citizens.

"You must kiss!" they call excitedly.

Peeta is taken aback because they _have_ been kissing, and it's rather presumptuous to demand such things.

"Excuse me?" he says.

The women point up to a wreath hanging above their heads, and sigh, as if it's the most obvious thing.  "The kissing wreath," one says.  "If you stand beneath it, you must kiss your lover's lips."

Peeta looks to Katniss, who rolls her eyes playfully before giving a nod of consent.  Her cheeks are rosy from the alcohol and her red lipstick is dotted with gingerbread crumbs.  Flames from the hearth of the fireplace flicker in her silver eyes, and his breath catches in his throat before she closes the distance to kiss him.  He feels a cold shiver when she pulls away and wants to chase after her warmth to hold onto it forever, but he pauses when he realizes how foolish he's being.

"Now make a wish," another says.  "But don't tell a soul, or it won't come true."

Peeta frowns because he knows it will never happen either way.

 

* * *

 

The bitter cold doesn't stop training, and neither does the snow.  It's a war, he supposes, and wars can't always be bothered to wait for more agreeable seasons.  Still, it's cold and it's miserable, and they make him run until his prosthetic leg dislodges, and then they make him run some more without letting him fix it.

He doesn't even want to fight in this stupid war, but once again, everyone is folding to the whims of Katniss Everdeen.  And if Katniss Everdeen wants a revolution, of course a revolution will occur.

The golden bell, recovered from the justice building, rings five times, signifying the end of drills and they're dismissed to use the showers. For the first time since his rescue, Peeta is free to go without a guarded escort.  He's sure that he's supposed to feel pride over this sort of progress, but instead it reminds him that he's so broken that he can't be trusted to do menial things like clean or feed himself, which leaves him feeling even worse than before.  And angry.

Always angry.

He breezes past the locker room without even noticing, and once he does notice, he doesn't care anymore. The guards will catch up with him eventually, and they won't be very happy with him when they do, but he's not worried about that right now. Right now, he wants to clear his mind, and he can't do that with guards and doctors and “friends” and “mentors” fussing over him all the time.

The door to one of the stock room is ajar, and he's drawn towards the darkness. When he rushes into the room, he nearly trips over something and immediately realizes that he's not alone.

She's there, curled up on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest.

She gasps, clutching her palm against her chest, before she coils away from him. He's just as shocked as she is when he doesn't cease the opportunity to attack her. They're alone, and he has her cornered, but he doesn't feel that itch to hurt her. If anything he feels protective of her.

There's a white bead in her hand, and he's startled when the words slip past his lips. “I gave that to you,” he says, a bit more harshly than he intended.

Her eyes fall to the pearl than lift back to him. She turns her head away and extends her hand towards him. “You can have it back if you want,” she says.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean that I remember. I remember giving that to you. On the beach.”

Her eyes flit to look at him, stunned. “You did,” she says carefully.

He can smell the salt water. Feel sand between his toes and the warm summer sun burning his ashen skin.

“Those come from coal you know,” he says with a bit of a grin. “When you put enough pressure on it.”

“That's not true,” she says, and she laughs a bit, and he thinks that she's making fun of him and that he should be angry, but he's not.

“I thought I heard that somewhere,” he says.

“You did. Effie said that once, and then you did too, as a joke. It was right before you gave this to me,” she says, lifting the pearl again.

“Maybe I did,” he agrees. He feels awkward on his feet so he sinks down to sit on the floor. She's in the far corner, leaving several feet between then, but she looks hesitant towards the gesture. “Come here often?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” she says.

He looks around the dark, cramped space. “There's something familiar about this place.”

Gray eyes appraise him skeptically. “There is,” she agrees. She hugs her knees more tightly against her chest. “It reminds me of the cave.”

“Not as creepy,” he says with a nod. “But that inevitable threat of death is still lingering pretty clearly in the air, so I guess it's got that going for it.”

“I feel safe here,” she mumbles. “Not sure why.”

Flashes assault him when he thinks of the cave. Katniss, vulnerable and pure, crawling into his lap to kiss him. Their bodies joining passionately for days. All for the Games. All for her selfish gain.

When he looks at her again, a shiny light distorts his vision. It casts sharp angles across her features, leaving her with a slender snout and fangs.

“I'm sure Gale can help you with that,” he says, no longer able to look at the mutt before him.

“Excuse me?” she asks incredulous.

“Getting off.”

She only stares at him coolly, which drives him on.

“That's what you're looking for by coming here, isn't it? From what I recall anyway.”

Her face flushes and she looks away. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't,” he says, before standing to his feet.

“Fine,” she says, setting her jaw into a defiant scowl. “Take it,” she hold the pearl out to him. “I don't want it anymore.”

Her hand trembles in spite of her determination, and when he looks at her, he almost feels sympathy.

“You need him,” he says.

She bows her head. “This isn't about Gale.”

“Not him,” he says. He acknowledges the pearl and says, “Him.”

Her fingers close around the small bead, and she holds it close to her heart.

“He's not coming back, is he?” she says carefully.

It would easy to end her delusions but he can't. Instead his jaw trembles and his hands fist helplessly at his sides. “Keep it, please,” he says before slipping past the door.

 

* * *

 

It snows for six days in a row. It's not consistently heavy, but the first day drops about a foot and a half, and the days that proceed it makes clearing the street a challenge, especially the infrequently traveled roads that lead to the Victor's Village.

Peeta sits idly in his home, baking bread that he doesn't eat. He drops off a loaf with Haymitch every morning, and in the evening, he moves to Katniss' house, warm bread in hand, and stands outside her door. Unable to work up the courage to knock.

They've eaten dinner together a handful of times now, but that's only after Sae has called on the telephone to invite him over. He's never just stopped by on his own, and she's never asked him herself, so when he stands in front of her door, shifting awkwardly from foot to prosthetic foot, he never knows how to proceed. Instead of knocking – like he wants to do, he leaves the loaf on the doorstep, and when he returns the next day the loaf is gone, waiting for a new one to replace it, and so he does.

It's on the sixth night that his fist cracks against the door, startling him more so than the wide eyed Katniss, who appears on the other side of it. She looks better than she did when he first returned, but there's still something wild, and untamed about her movements.

She steps away from the threshold, inviting him to enter, and immediately he gags on the smell of rancid flesh. Next to the door, lays a pile of six wild geese, all perfectly gutted and plucked of feathers.

“You've been hunting?” he says as politely as he can.

She bows her head and nods. “The dumb birds think it's a ghost town, they've been flapping around the front yard like lame ducks. I don't think I can shoot many more of them. Haymitch seems to be getting attached.”

“You're running out of floor space too,” he says, cringing at the pile.

“Sae hasn't been able to make it through the snow,” she says. “I keep meaning to make stew but...” she trails off, a scowl creasing her lips. Katniss can't take care of herself, an undeniable fact, and it's obvious that she hates it. Peeta's not unfamiliar with the feeling.

He toes the pile of dead geese with his boot, and offers her a hopeful grin. “Well the one on top doesn't look too bad. Maybe we can make something of it.”

Because of the storm, she doesn't have many vegetables for a good stew, so they broil the bird while Peeta gathers enough ingredients to make a cheesy potato casserole and Katniss disposes of the bad meat. They eat in silence in the living room, in front of the fireplace. It's not lit. Peeta can't imagine her ever daring to play with fire again.

He stays until he feels that it's time to leave and as he moves to the door, she catches his hand.

It's warm. Familiar. He misses it.

“Stay with me?” she says, her eyebrows quirking hopefully.

There's never been another answer to that.

 

* * *

 

It's several years after the rebellion when Christmas is adopted by Panem.

It's a part of an incentive to restore the war torn country, and to heal the wounds from nearly a century of reapings. There are plenty of days for remembering the Games, and paying tribute to their memory. But nothing raises morale. Panem is broken, and needs a reason to celebrate again.

A committee is formed in the Capitol, which Peeta is invited to sit on, and after days of deliberation, he uncovers an old tale about Sinterklaas in the Capitol kept archives.

The winter festival seems to be the perfect event for moving past the horrors of the Hunger Games. A day of warmth, celebration, and joy, in the midst of a cold and barren season. Most importantly, a day devoted to celebrating children both young and old.

The wealthier districts, one and two, plan lavish parades, and Peeta's certain that the skating swans in seven would make Johanna Mason roll her eyes into the new year. But Twelve is nowhere near being rebuilt.

Few return after the war, and with Twelve as an outlying district, not many supplies are sent out for the restoration. And even though Thom has basically rebuilt the district himself, everyone is living comfortably.

There are only a handful of children in the district, but Peeta knows them all – everyone knows everyone in District Twelve. They range from toddlers to teenagers, reaping age. Even though they've never known a reaping of their own, they've seen the devastation from them. Probably lived in fear for the day they turned twelve. Peeta doesn't want anyone to feel that sort of fear again. And if they're going to have Christmas in District Twelve, he wants it to be special.

He spends another week in the archives studying all the traditions. Jesus, Santa Claus, reindeer, and eight days of lights. The holiday takes on so many forms and comes from so many tales, he's not sure which one it's truly about.

He finds one that he likes best. About shoes placed by the fireplace filled with candies and toys in the morning.

Peeta's never been good at making sugar candies, but he spends weeks perfecting a peppermint recipe, and makes so many batches that they spill from once empty cabinets in both his and Katniss' home.

The night before Christmas, he and Katniss wrap themselves in large knit caps and mittens before taking to the darkened streets. Children have left their shoes outside their front doors, and they fill them to the brim with peppermint candies.

When they get home, Peeta nearly trips in the doorway and finds a pair of his boots beneath his feet. A single peppermint candy rolls across the hardwood floor, followed by another, until a pool of marbles has formed in the entrance way.

Katniss smiles sweetly at him when he arches a curious brow, and Peeta is relieved to see that he isn't the only kid in Panem who loves Christmas.

 

* * *

 

Katniss isn't the most domestic partner. They call her old maid in town, because although she and Peeta have been living together for years, they've yet to have an official toasting. It isn't uncommon to get married at eighteen – after one's last reaping, but that was for status in the merchant class, and for the Seam, it was because they were no longer eligible for tesserae.

But there's no merchant class or Seam or tesserae anymore. The Games are over now.

Peeta knows that Katniss doesn’t want to get married, and it’s not just to him, it’s to anybody. Sure he wouldn’t mind getting married, but he loves her, and she loves him, and that’s enough for him.

It’s not just the toasting that’s missing from their domesticity.  It’s the little things too.  Katniss isn’t neat, or organized, she leaves things in places she finds convenient.  Like her rancid game bag next to the front door, and her jacket thrown over the back of the sofa, and her quiver of arrows over the staircase handrail.  She only makes a plate for herself at dinner, and takes far more than what the portion intended.  And sometimes Peeta has to leave gentle reminders that a shower is occasionally in order, because she grew up in the Seam without running water, and bathing wasn’t ever a priority for her.

She also gives the worst presents at Christmas.  In her opinion, anyway.  Not his.  It’s just that Peeta excels at thoughtful, and unexpected gift giving, while Katniss does not.  Like the year she complained about the trees being too slick to climb, and he bought her a pair of boots with cleats in the toes.  She bought him a sack of flour that year.  Or the year that he made her a charm bracelet of the trinkets she kept from the second arena — the pearl, the spigot, pieces from the parachute, so she wouldn’t keep losing them in her sock drawer.  She bought him a sack of flour that year too.

But Peeta likes flour, and more importantly he loves Katniss.  “You’re all I need,” he reassures her every year, when she sulks over her failure.  “The greatest gift I’ve ever been given.”

It’s with this comfortable understanding that they enter Christmas, and Peeta extends his hands expectantly for the brand new sack of flour that he’s made room for in the pantry.  Instead, however, Katniss enters the room with a loaf of milky, white bread cut into eight uneven slices.  She sits herself at the hearth and methodically builds a flame in the fireplace.

“What’s this?” Peeta asks with raised eyebrows.

“Your present,” she says.  Her long, slender fingers flip through the slices of bread, and she smiles when she finds the one that she likes best.  “You want me.  You have me.  Let’s make it official.”

He feels his chest tighten so hard that his heart beats in his throat. “We don't have to do this,” he says. “I know – I thought we agreed.”

She continues on calmly, holding the bread over the flame. “This started with a burnt load of bread,” she says. “A gift from you to me.”

“Katniss,” he manages to say, his voice as stern as his nerves will allow. “If this is about the bread again, I did that because I wanted to.”

She crawls across the floor so that her hands rest on his knees. “Good,” she says, pressing warm, toasted bread against his lips. “Then we're even.”

Katniss gives the best present, Peeta decides as they lie breathless and satiated next to the fireplace, the toasted slice of bread forgotten on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Christmas builds into something bigger in District Twelve.  All of Panem practices their own version of the traditions, but Peeta is certain that Christmas in Twelve is the best Christmas there is.

They decorate the merchant streets with large pine wreaths and streams of white lights, and all the merchants set up carts to sell specially crafted Christmas goods. 

The event grows bigger every year, and after enough teeth chattering and complaints about frostbite, Thom throws together some scrap wood to make little stalls for all the shop keepers.  They’re fairly small, but there’s enough room for an oven or space heater to keep warm, and so the market lasts a few days longer every year, nine nights of ladies and men dancing in the street, then a few days more with hot, mulled wine to keep them warm, until it’s a month long event.

It becomes custom to decorate the stalls, and although most people just make little displays across their gables, Peeta turns his into a masterpiece.

Every inch of the structure is painted to resemble the bakery in the form of a gingerbread house.  It takes him days to complete, working into the long hours of the night.  He doesn't even realize how long he's been working until Katniss stops by to deliver a late supper. She sits her self on the counter, sipping on hot wine as she watches him work, and after an hour, she picks up a paint brush and threatens to help.

Peeta doesn’t mind her help, but when he’s around her, there’s really only one thing that he’d like to be doing, and it’s certainly not painting.

Instead he watches her. Wisps of hair escaping her braid and tucked beneath the brim of her heavy wool hat. Her olive skin nearly pale from the winter chill. Her tongue peeks out between her lips as she concentrates intently on each brush stroke. She's picked an easy part, a crook in the bakery roof where a pile of snow has settled. He'll have to add some blue later – to highlight the way the snow shimmers, but the way she dabs the brush at the canvas instead of using long even strokes, gives the painting a powdery texture.

“Where'd you learn that technique?” he teases, and quickly paints a small snowflake on her cheek.

She scowls at him. “Is it awful?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I'm impressed.”

Her lips curl up into a timid smile, the kind that makes him forget all about the wet paint on his Christmas stall when he pins her against the wall. The palms of his hands become sticky, coated in blue and gold and white. And the colors blend as they paint the trail of his fingers down the front of her jacket.

It's cold out. Snow crunching beneath the soles of their boots as they scramble towards the warmth of the bakery oven, tucked in his stall. Her bulky sweater seems endless in his search for the hem, but soon his cold fingers find her heated skin, leaving her shuddering beneath his touch.

The bins that line the walls are the next to fall. The metal racks crashing to the floor in a commotion that probably wakes the entire district. Peeta's so intoxicated by his wife's spell that he doesn't notice the sound.

Paint splatters across the floor and counter tops following the paths of their bodies until the gingerbread bakery is nearly unidentifiable.

It's a masterpiece indeed.

 

* * *

 

The only person who loves Christmas more than Peeta Mellark is his daughter. She bursts into their lives a week before the treasured holiday, because according to Peeta, she didn't want to miss it.

She becomes a permanent fixture at the bakery's Christmas stand, replacing Katniss as Peeta's partner in crime. As an infant, she only observes, hypnotized by the ornaments that twirl along the overhang of the awning. But as she grows older, she insists that her assistance is of the up most importance.

She stays with him from dawn until closing, never once complaining about the cold.

Peeta loves the company, but his daughter isn't the best businesswoman. She pays customers to take their cookies with hand fulls of uncounted change, sneaks candies when she thinks he isn't looking, and is awfully clumsy with the merchandise.

He learns this the hard way as he watches a basket of ten cookies shaped like noblemen leap from the counter and into the snow.

She cries at her mistake and Peeta dusts the dirty snow from one of the cookies and take a bite. “See, it's perfectly fine,” he assures her as he discreetly tosses the other fallen cookies into the trash bin. The money isn't what Christmas is about to Peeta. It's his beautiful little girl.

 

* * *

 

The disjointed melody of a wooden flute has been piping for nearly eleven hours, it seems.

As Peeta gets older, Christmas becomes less fun.  It's not that he doesn't still love the holiday.  It just becomes tiring, and stressful.  There are cookies and candies to be made, presents to be purchased, and traditions to be upheld.  But at the same time there's a bakery to keep in order, a daughter to be kept entertained, and most urgently, a newborn with a mouthful of emerging teeth to be soothed.  
  
It's their first Christmas with two children instead of one, although it may as well be seven.  The presents have all been opened, and Katniss has just gotten their son to nap after hours of fussing, and Peeta had hoped that this lull in the morning's activities would offer a moment of rest. But his daughter has other ideas.

Peeta made the mistake of purchasing the wooden flute she had her eye on in the toy store, and she's been playing it ever since.

Peeta looks to Katniss, who has somehow managed to fall asleep through the noise. Their youngest, on the other hand begins to stir, and Peeta flinches at the thought of his wails filling the room again.

He eases out of the bed as carefully as possible and scoops up his daughter, her flute still clutched tightly in her little hands.

“Time to wish Uncle Haymitch a merry Christmas,” he says tightly.

Her little pink lips pout at first, almost a mirror of her mother's scowl, before she asks, “Can I play him a song?”

Peeta grins, “You can play him a hundred songs.”

Haymitch doesn't answer the door, he never does, so Peeta enters after the first knock. Haymitch doesn't drink like he used to, during the Games, but he's older now. Tired. They're all tired.

Brown curls bounce across the room and jump into Haymitch's lap, startling him into wake.

“Merry Christmas Uncle Haymitch,” she shouts. “Merry Christmas!”

“Hey sweet pea,” he says groggily, and before he can object, Peeta offers him a quick wave before darting out the door.

A screaming child barrels through the door hours later, her round blue eyes flooded with tears that stream down her round cheeks. “Daddy, I'm sorry for being bad,” she cries. “Please don't let Krumpus take my toys.”

Peeta's confused until he looks down at her little fist, wrapped around a black piece of coal.

“Did Uncle Haymitch take your flute?” he says.

“No, Krumpus did,” she says with a pout. “He took my flute and gave me coal because that's what the bad children get.”

“Why do you think that you're bad?” he asks gently.

“Because you decided to get a new one,” she says as if it were obvious.

“A new what?”

“A new baby!”

Peeta feels awful. The holidays have been tiring and stressful and has given him a shorter temper. But that doesn't excuse this. He never wants his little girl to think this way.

He scoops her into his arms and carries her up to his bedroom, dropping her on the bed. “Coal isn't a bad gift,” he says. “It's the most special gift of all.” He moves to the dresser and opens a small jewelry box. “Do you know what happens when you squeeze a piece of coal really tight?”

She presses her lips together thoughtfully and shakes her head.

“Why don't we find out?”

She wraps both hands around the piece of coal and closes them around it as hard as she can. “Nothing happened,” she says sounding disappointed.

Peeta sits down beside her and holds out his hand. “Here let me try.”

She's reluctant, but drops the coal into his palm. He squeezes his hands together, his nose wrinkling in concentration, before he opens his hands to reveal the pearl charm bracelet.

“A pearl!” she says in awe.

Her little wrist is tiny and the bracelet wraps around it twice with room to spare for the clasp. She wears it all around the house, showing it to anyone that will look at it.

Katniss bites her tongue, but shakes her head disapprovingly. “A pearl from coal you say?”

And Peeta can only smile sheepishly.

 

 

* * *

 

Thunder rumbles through district twelve like a chorus of drummers drumming. Peeta didn't even know that it could thunder while it snowed, but the night is proving him wrong on several fronts, and he's past making assumptions

Katniss has hunter's instincts, she can feel the changes in weather as acutely as the animals that she hunts. Of course she would be right about the storm.

Peeta peers out the window of the bakery at the thick curtain of snow that obscures his view of town. Two feet of snow has fallen in the last few hours, and he finds himself trapped. With every flake that tumbles from the sky it becomes abundantly clear.

Peeta Mellark is going to miss Christmas.

The walk to Victor's Village is a little under a mile and he thinks he can make it if he can move quickly enough. But there are presents to drag along – which he stows in an empty flour sack, and his prosthetic leg slips on the ice, slowing him down.

The lights from town grow gauzy behind him through the thick snow, until he's surrounded by darkness. He's sure he should feel cold, but he doesn't. His teeth chatter and he can't feel his fingers, but his blood pumps hard and fast. He'll make it home for Christmas. He's determined.

His prosthetic leg slips on the slick snow again and he finds the world spinning around him when his back hits the ice. It takes him a moment to catch his breath, icy tears springing from the corner of his eyes from the shock. He attempts to sit up, but finds himself unable to move. He struggles. Twists and turns against the sleet beneath him, but he can't get up. He's trapped.

Peeta's not sure how long he lays there. Minutes, maybe hours. Snow has blanketed his boots and jacket, until he's nearly as camouflaged as he was on the forest floor in the Hunger Games. He was going to die then.

He's going to die here, he realizes.

Closing his eyes, his whole life flashes before his eyes. His family, the Games, the war, District Twelve, his children.

“Katniss,” her name slips from his lips. He calls out for her again, louder this time, until he's shouting.

That's when he hears the bells. It's faint at first. A jingling in the distance. But it grows louder, and then he hears the footsteps of a horse too.

“Help!” Peeta yells. The bells sound so close that he's surprised he can't see them. Suddenly, he can wiggle his frozen finger and toes, and slowly he attempts to sit up, successfully this time.

The bells grow farther away, and Peeta scrambles desperately to his feet. “Help,” he calls again, chasing after the ghost.

“Peeta?”

He freezes at the sound of her voice, and when he looks around, he realizes he's only a few paces from the houses of Victor's Village.

“Katniss?” he shouts.

“Peeta!”

He sprints towards their home until he crashes into her small body. His arms wrap greedily around her warmth and he holds her tighter than he knew possible.

“I was so worried, with the storm,” she says against his neck.

“There was ice, and the snow,” he begins to ramble. “I didn't think I was going to make it. Until I heard those bells.”

She looks at him curiously. “What bells?”

She helps him inside and he warms next to the fire with his children wrapped around him.

“How'd you find your way back?” they ask, clinging to his legs.

“Santa Claus,” he says.


End file.
